


Remember Me

by ariel2me



Series: First Person [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-08-16 19:58:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16501775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: Mothers, daughters, and the words said and unsaid.Chapter 2: Ellyn Reyne & Rohanne TarbeckChapter 1: The Unnamed Princess of Dorne & Elia Martell





	1. The Unnamed Princess of Dorne & Elia Martell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not clear when the unnamed Princess of Dorne died in canon. The conversation between Oberyn and Tyrion in A Storm of Swords strongly indicates that she lived long enough to see Elia marry Rhaegar. On the other hand, the following passage from The World of Ice and Fire seems to indicate that she died before Elia was even betrothed to Rhaegar, since Doran would not have been styled “Prince of Dorne” if his mother was still alive:
> 
> Early in the year 279 AC, Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, was formally betrothed to Princess Elia Martell, the delicate young sister of Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne. (The World of Ice and Fire)
> 
> However, TWOIAF does contain a number of timeline and continuity errors, and it’s possible that this could be another one of them. Another possibility is that Maester Yandel (who, according to the in-universe premise of TWOIAF, wrote his account many years after the event in question) referred to Doran as the Prince of Dorne because Doran was indeed the Prince of Dorne at the time of writing, even though he was not yet the Prince of Dorne at the time of Elia’s betrothal to Rhaegar. 
> 
> In this fic, the unnamed Princess of Dorne outlives her daughter.

_Without memory, there can be no revenge. Lest we forget. Remember me. To you from failing hands we throw. Cries of the thirsty ghosts. (The Blind Assassin, Margaret Atwood)_

* * *

 

Last night, I dreamed of you again, Elia. I dreamed of you holding my hand in the Water Gardens, leading me to your favorite fountain, where the statue of the golden mermaid with her crown of sun spouted water from her ruby-red lips.  _The flowing water is her song,_  you said to me, when you were all of seven,  _the song she sings to soothe the children, all the children, not just her own._ You were so convincing, so striking and meticulous in the picture you painted with your words that I could have sworn I really heard the music, the unforgettable song of the sun-crowned mermaid. 

I close my eyes, tightly, as tightly as I could, and I could almost hear the sound of your voice, the many different inflections you had for calling me  _Mother._   _Mother_ , with affection.  _Mother_ , with exasperation.  _Mother_ , with reckless abandon.  _Mother_ , with wariness and caution.  _Mother_ , with gratitude.  _Mother_ , with discontent.  _Mother_ , with admiration.  _Mother_ , with disapproval.  _Mother,_  with pride.  _Mother_ , with disappointment.  _Mother_ , with –

 _Oh Mother, how you could go on and on and on!_ I remember your smile and your teasing, playful tone, when you said this to me on many occasions. I remember your frown and your angry, frustrated tone, when you repeated those same words to me on a very different occasion.  

“You should have named me Eliandra, Mother, so we could be Aliandra and Eliandra,” you once said, long ago, when you were not that much older than your Rhaenys. Aliandra and Eliandra, two halves of a whole, but that was only what you wanted more than anything else in the world back when you were still a little girl. As you grew older, as you grew into a young woman, you wanted to be your own woman, a separate being, a separate entity from your mother. As you should. As you must. As every woman must.  

I remember calling you Eli, until the day you gently but firmly told me that you were now old enough to be called Elia, to be called by your full name. “But,” you offered, mindful of my possible disappointment, “you can still call me Eli when it's just the two of us, Mother.”

My mother used to call me Ali. She did not live long enough for me to tell her to stop calling me Ali, and to start calling me Aliandra. I was full of gratitude to the gods that day, the day you told me to call you Elia, grateful to the gods that I had lived long enough for my daughter to insist on this.

And now those same gods have cursed me to live long enough to watch you die, Elia. You and your babes, your beloved children who are as precious to you as you and your brothers have always been precious to me. 

_The gods are not at fault, Mother. The gods are not to blame. The hands of men did this, not the hands of the gods._

I know, my darling, I know. And they will pay, I promise you. Those men will pay for what they did to you. They will pay for what they did to your daughter and they will pay for what they did to your son. Their monstrous deed will never be forgiven, nor will it ever be forgotten.

We will remember. We will always remember. 

I remember you staring at the sun, Elia, trying to catch a glimpse of its spear, its inseparable mate. I remember you mourning the loss of a full moon. I remember you cheerily counting the stars. I remember you looking for Nymeria’s star.

I remember your first kitten, a striped creature you called Dorea, in honor of the absent brother you missed who was serving as a squire in Salt Shore. I remember everything you wrote in your letter about your Rhaenys and her first kitten, a black creature she called Balerion.  

I remember your gentle heart, looking out for the weak and the forgotten.

I remember your righteous fury, defending the weak and the forgotten.  

I remember the look on your face, when a playmate of yours was being called cruel and insulting names for being a bastard and an orphan of the Greenblood. “That's not what we do here,” you insisted, your hands on your hip, your eyes glaring ferociously at the offender, who could not hide his surprise that gentle, soft-spoken Princess Elia could ever be roused to such a state. “And the Water Gardens is not just meant for the trueborn sons and daughters of the highborn,” you continued.

I remember the look on your face, when I grew very close to one of the young ladies attending you. “Would you have preferred a healthier and more robust daughter, Mother, someone more vigorous, someone who could go riding, hawking or hunting with you at a moment’s notice?” you asked of me at the time. Jealousy. Of course you’re capable of it. You’re human after all.  

You rarely displayed your feelings freely to all and sundry, to those who were not the closest to you. You were always able to maintain your composure much better than Oberyn, much better than myself, truth be told. You were more like Doran in that regard. Fools and opportunists misunderstood – or _pretend_  to misunderstand – your composure as a sign of indifference and lack of feeling. But to be publicly composed is not to be immune from pain, hurt and sorrow in private. And to be strong is not an excuse for others to humiliate you or to trample on you with impunity, while flaunting the specious justification that their conduct is acceptable because you are too strong to be broken by it.

I never dream of you dying, Elia. “And isn't that a blessed relief, Princess?” Maester Caleotte would tell me, every time I confide this to him, as he pours more potions and vile concoctions for me to swallow. My heart is failing me, he says. It has been failing me for quite some time. But what is a failing heart, after all, compared to a broken one?

I never dream of you dying, Elia. I never see it in my sleep, with my eyes closed. But when my eyes are open, it is the only thing I could see. The only thing I could feel. Your pain. Your fear. Your rage. Your frustration. Your cries. Your screams. For your children. For yourself. For the appalling and unforgivable unfairness and injustice of it all. Why must you, Rhaenys and Aegon be the ones to pay the ultimate price for the sins of others?     

I close my eyes again, and I compel myself to remember you living, not just dead or dying. I compel myself to remember you in your entirety, in all your multitudes, in all your contradictions, resolved and unresolved.

You are more than just a victim, and you deserve to be remembered as more than just a victim. The men who brutalized and butchered you, who made you into their victim, must be made to face justice, must be forced to pay for their crime. These two things are both true at the same time.

Your death does not define your life, but your death must be avenged nonetheless.  

_And my Rhaenys and my Aegon too, Mother. They must be avenged. We want the tongue that ordered the killing to be punished, not just the hands that performed the murderous deed._

Yes, my darling, yes.

_Promise me, Mother._

I promise. I promise it by the sun and the spear. I promise it by Nymeria’s star. I promise it by all the love I ever had and still have for you. 


	2. Ellyn Reyne & Rohanne Tarbeck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A companion piece to **[The _Almos_ t, But Not Quite, Lady of Casterly Rock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2550614/chapters/5812100)**

Well, of course you were named after  _that_  Rohanne. Who else could it be but her? Lady Rohanne of House Webber, the dead Lady of Casterly Rock, the much-mourned and beloved wife of Gerold Lannister. “The light of my life, my best friend, my soulmate,” he once described her to me, with tears shining in his eyes, back when we were still on good terms, before he banished me from Casterly Rock for the sin of revealing exactly how weak and inadequate his son and heir Tytos was.   

Did I name you Rohanne to spite my former good-father? Oh, to be sure. I admit it freely. I am not ashamed of it. Why should I be? I would declare it loudly and proudly through the length and breadth of the westerlands, even the entire realm.

I had hoped that my once-but-no-longer good-father would choke on a fishbone or die of apoplexy upon hearing the news, so great was his wrath at what he called “ _that_  woman’s outrageous presumption.” Alas, the gods did not see fit to take him there and then, relieving us of his cumbersome presence.   

I  _dare_  to presume, yes. Why should my daughter not be called Rohanne after all? Before she was Lady Lannister, Rohanne Webber was the ruling Lady of Coldmoat, the Red Widow who buried five husbands without shedding a single tear for any of them, who was rumored to have hastened a few of those husbands to their graves. She was fearless, tireless, dogged and determined, a woman worthy of my admiration.

We would not have been on good terms, I’m sure, had she lived to see me become her good-daughter. And why should we be on good terms, after all? She would fight fiercely and ferociously to protect her interest, I have no doubt, and I would fight even more fiercely and ferociously to protect mine, not unlike Jeyne Marbrand and I.

 _The War of the Wombs_ , Gerold’s old fool that loathsome Toad calls it, and hoards of men hoot and laugh derisively at the foolishness of women, conveniently forgetting that our wombs are what continue their precious lines. Without our wombs, where are their prized sons to prove their virility? Those sons do not come out red-faced and squalling between their _father’s_  legs. 

Men allow us so few weapons to wield, and they begrudge us using even those few to our advantage. A woman must use all and any at her disposal. If beauty is your advantage, then use it. If charm is your advantage, then use it. If your supposed intense fragility is your advantage, then use it. If your fertile womb is your advantage, then use it.

Make no mistake, Rohanne. The world is constantly at war with us, whether we wish to be at war with it or not.

“If we play their game by their rules, Mother, trampling on those weaker than us without any regard or regret, then how are we any different? How are we any better?”you asked, you poor, sweet, silly, naïve child.  

Sweetness is well and good for a little girl, but not for a young woman. It is time you grow up, Rohanne, and leave behind childish things and childish views. It is time you know better, for your own sake. Your mother could not protect you from the world forever. You must learn to fend for yourself, to  _fight_  for yourself, as ferociously as your namesake, and as ferociously as your mother.

Remember this: we play the game by  _our_  rules, but play it we must, and play it to win. The price we must pay for losing is too high, the punishment too severe.


End file.
